Realizing that he had begun something which might
not terminate with credit to himself, he hung his head and for the
space of several minutes gave all his attention to his crop. And
presently the visitor spoke again.
"I like your hair, little boy. It's a pretty red."
That settled the issue between them. To be hailed as little boy was
bad enough, but to be reminded of his crowning misfortune was adding
insult to injury. He rose and cautiously approached the fence with
the intention of pinching the impudent stranger, suddenly and
surreptitiously, and sending her away weeping. As his hand crept
between the palings on its wicked mission, the little miss looked at
him in friendly fashion and queried:
"What's your name?"
Bryce's hand hesitated. "Bryce Cardigan," he answered gruffly.
"I'm Shirley Sumner," she ventured, "Let's be friends."
"When did you come to live in Sequoia?" he demanded.
"I don't live here. I'm just visiting here with my aunt and uncle.
We're staying at the hotel, and there's nobody to play with. My
uncle's name is Pennington. So's my aunt's. He's out here buying
timber, and we live in Michigan. Do you know the capital of
Michigan?"
"Of course I do," he answered. "The capital of Michigan is Chicago."
"Oh, you big stupid! It isn't.
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